Remembering how bonded my grandmother and I felt, ensnared as we both were in the tentacles of my mother’s sense of entitlement, I often wonder if my eventual marriage at seventeen to Joe DiMaggio’s son wasn’t a sort of sacrificial offering to my grandmother in exchange for abandoning her. Mind you, this wasn’t a conscious thought at the time. I mean, at seventeen I would have done anything to escape my mother’s clutches except cause my precious grandmother pain. I was fiercely protective of her. After all, she was the woman who mothered me—who cared whether I lived or died—from the day I was born. I could not fathom facing life without the comfort of her watchful eyes, even if she was without the fortitude or clout to intervene directly in the various abuses other adults—my mother included—heaped on me. I recall years of childhood prayers, begging and bargaining with God to allow her to live until I was old enough to escape. Maybe I really thought that other than introducing my grandmother to Jesus himself, the best thing I could do in exchange for leaving her alone with my mother was to marry Joe DiMaggio’s son. After all, for the whole of her life, no one ever loved the Yankees more than my grandmother.
But before that, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and my childhood had to happen. And I had to grow through a childhood of dumpsters, ragged dolls, and fear. (P.g. 5) To be continued……….